River Of Lathe
by anche
Summary: This is a reworking and expansion of my story Nepenthes. Some parts will sound familiar, some are new. Voldemort has won and Hermione must find her place in the new world. previously posted on fictionally
1. The Last Moon

Author's Notes: You may have read this as Nepenthes. I have reworked, revised, and expanded that story into this. It is longer and some of the motivations of different characters have been changed. However if you absolutely do not want to reread or even skim the reworked chapters then please skip to chapter 6, that is where you will get the second part of what was Nepenthes.

My beta is the amazing and wonderful Madam Celeste she is great and I can not thank her enough!

**DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

The River of Lathe

_"For he feigneth that at the end of the thread or web of every man's life there was a little medal containing the person's name, and that Time waited upon the shears, and as soon as the thread was cut caught the medals, and carried them to the river of lathe; and about the bank there were many birds flying up and down, that would get the medals and carry them in their beak a little while, and then let them fall into the river. Only there were a few swans, which if they got a name would carry it to a temple where it was consecrate. And although many men, more mortal in their affections than in their bodies, do esteem desire of name and memory but as a vanity and ventosity."_

_- Plato_

The Last Moon

The room looked bad. Well, he supposed, it always looked bad, but this was particularly trashed. If he was around tomorrow, he would have a long day cleaning up the remains of his temper. If.

Try as he might, he could not forget that he was, ever so discretely, chained to the wall. The weight of the ankle cuff nagged at him like an unreachable itch or a scab begging to be picked. It was always in the back of his mind and held there only by a supreme effort of will. He felt madness and despair as almost physical entities, and they were very close to him now.

Tonks had wept when the lock clicked home and protested violently when he had forced the key upon her. This really was the best way. If he was lucky he would die here.

"My boggart always turned into the full moon," he told the empty air, relishing the human sound of his voice. "I never was quite able to laugh it away. But I am laughing now. I sure am laughing now." And he was, but bitterly. They had always known it was a risk, a gamble at best. Only no one stopped to consider just how high the stakes could go. Well, he thought, Dumbledore probably would have, maybe even did. With a sigh, he sat on the only remaining chair.

At first, he had not felt the call, at least not strongly. The other werewolves did, of course. Slowly, one by one they disappeared, slinking off into the night, answering the call of darkness. But he had remained human. "Pride, that is one of the seven deadly sins, isn't? Gods, I was so proud," he murmured, "maybe I was deluding myself all along. I had been so proud of my human heart. I had conquered the best." In frustration, he kicked at the table, causing the chain to strain violently at the wall bolts and the table leg to splinter, sending a storm of paper and dust into the air. It will be a night for the books outside the Shrieking Shack if I keep this up, he thought with a slight smile.

A night for the books, but nothing like the night of the cat. That one really is documented in a few haunted history books. I should have been suspicious when Sirius arrived late to Potions that afternoon. But really, I never guessed he would have stolen one of that second year Slytherin's kittens...and then smuggled her into the tunnel. The poor thing had the fright of her life when we three came charging down that path in animal form. She was so small, she seemed to simply disappear but we sure did tear up the place looking for her.

The pull of the chain brought him out of the memory. Unconsciously, he began to pace the small square of space his restraints allowed. "I certainly have fallen this time. Pacing a locked room like a caged animal." But that is exactly what I am. The moon will be up in less than an hour and there is no use pretending that lock will hold. He is calling the dark beasts and the beast within me will answer. No matter what the man believes. No amount of wolfsbane will hold me tonight.

With an animalistic roar, the man threw himself down into the corner. How many will I infect before the end? How many will I condemn? "If I was a decent man I would just end it now. And I think I would, if not for Tonks. She made me promise to live, to give it a chance, to hope." Tonks...

It was late, he was sure the house would be asleep and so was sneaking around in the dark. He didn't see the shadows move until too late. With the force of a small army, she threw herself into his arms, knocking them both into the side table. For an instant, he swore the lamp hovered in mid-air contemplating the merits of falling or returning back onto the table. It fell.

"Well!" Sheepishly they both turned to face a very annoyed Molly Weasley. "Decent people are trying to sleep you know."

"I love you, Tonks," whispered the man, then the room was silent.

A cloud rolled away and the wolf jumped up. Screaming into the night, he raced off through the door trailing an ankle cuff and chain behind him. Somewhere there was a battle to be joined.

When the battle finally came it was nothing like she thought it would be. There was no order, no neat lines, no clear loyalties. Causes were betrayed, friendships double-crossed and new alliances formed in the space of a second. By far, the worst was that it was impossible to keep track of anyone in the turmoil. She fought without knowing who was dead. She fought because in that moment, there was nothing else in the world.

In the first moments of the fighting, she was sure she had seen Lupin; not the tired kindly man, but the wolf, the monster. And she had watched him rip out the throat of a wizard not old enough to be out of Hogwarts. Turning away in disgust, she prayed Tonks never had to see. She could not have known that Tonks had already fallen.

The Death Eaters had acted quickly and quietly when they finally made their move. Ron had been taken. She did not know why he went into the Forbidden Forest alone, but something had broken in her the day the ransom note arrived. Ron's life for Harry's her lover for her best friend; how could she wake up for the nightmare? She had no conception of time from that moment until now. Mad-Eye Moody, Lupin, and Harry locked themselves in a room; she and Molly cleaned the kitchen, repeatedly.

It was decided they would arrange for the switch and that it would end there. Ron would surely be lost but no one really expected to see him alive again now. Harry would be used as bait, and then they would attack. Standing on the battlefield, surrounded by bodies and screams, she knew this was exactly what Voldemort had wanted.

Snape lay dead in the dust behind them, slain by the curse Bellatrix Lestrange had aimed for Harry's heart. With a grim satisfaction, Harry then slew the murder of Sirius. Harry's voice, pronouncing the unforgivable curse, chilled Hermione. She had known this was what Mad-Eye and Lupin were teaching him, but no seventeen-year-old boy should sound so confident or experienced.

Turning away from the gloating Harry, she saw Molly Weasley about to be overcome by a group of clocked Death Eaters. But the attack never came. The wind had changed and the battlefield fell silent. Harry and Voldemort were circling each other, sizing the other up. If any words were spoken between the two, she did not hear, but she would always imagine they were there.

She saw the movement a second too late. Draco; shifty, arrogant, and as it turned out, brave Draco, in the final critical moment, chose to break ranks with his father and the Death Eaters. Launching into the air, he threw himself at Lord Voldemort, breaking the Dark Lord's attention and giving Harry his shot. Or at least, that is what Hermione supposed he had planned.

Somehow, Voldemort managed to see or sense the attack coming; maybe a reflection of movement in the glasses Harry never gave up. In the moment Draco launched at him, the Dark Lord turned. Twisting the boy's form in the air, he placed Draco between himself and Harry. To have a clear shot at Voldemort, all Harry needed to do was strike the boy who had made his school years torture, the boy who had led to Dumbledore's death, the boy who got in over his head. For a heartbeat or a year, Harry stood there. With one fluid movement, Voldemort broke Draco's neck and unleashed the 'Avada Kedavra' Curse. As he fell to the ground, Harry's glasses snapped before settling half submerged in a pool of blood, mud, and worse.


	2. The Story

Author's Notes: You may have read this as Nepenthes. I have reworked, revised, and expanded that story into this. It is longer and some of the motivations of different characters have been changed. However if you absolutely do not want to reread or even skim the reworked chapters then please skip to chapter 6, that is where you will get the second part of what was Nepenthes.

My beta is the amazing and wonderful Madam Celeste she is great and I can not thank her enough!

The Story

"So, Miss James, you spent some time in the Muggle United States, I understand. Can you tell my readers something about that? It must have been very challenging to adapt to such crude artistic methods," said the middle-aged round wizard with an overly bright smile.

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone can not satisfy... writes Rita Skeeter... "I told you! I told you not to annoy her..."

"Hmm ... oh yes, I was in West Virginia for a little over a year." With tremendous effort, Hermione pulled her attention back to the reporter before her. He was scribbling furiously, periodically shooting her looks of pain and exaggerated frustration. She supposed he was feeling a little persecuted but she had emphatically forbidden the use of a Quick Quotes Quill and then proven to be a scattered, daydream-prone interview. This was, most likely, the reason behind the questions emphasizing her connections to Muggles, a dangerous connection to say the least.

"What I did was take the basic artistic methods and improve them through magic. Using a transfiguration spell of my own authorship... and don't think I am going to give away all of my secrets," Hermione said flashing what she hoped was a charming, flirtatious smile. "I managed to get the effects you see and... Well, it would be easier if I showed you my process. If you will permit me?" You have to throw the press a bone every now and again, she knew.

"Oh, oh my, yes! That would be absolutely wonderful, Miss James! What a treat for my readers. I am really so glad that you agreed to this interview." Apparently he had decided to forgive, or at least forget, the ban on his Quill. "This will be a great start for the new Magical Arts and Culture page in the Sunday Prophet. Yes indeed, the reclusive Jane James not only gives an interview, but a demonstration!"

As she set her hands to the wheel, everything else faded somewhat. She was vaguely aware that he was still chattering on about the story, but all that was secondary. Absently, she brushed away a few rebellious curls of hair, not noticing the flash of a camera, and then she began. Humming the spell to herself, she guided the clay as it began to bend and move beyond all laws of gravity, into an elegant, impossible form. Strange, she knew, that all her book smarts would be put aside; yet as the magic flowed through her fingertips, she could find a kind of freedom. Besides, she made smart art. McGonagall would be disappointed in her, but McGonagall and all who could hold her accountable were dead. Here, she had control; here, she could create beauty even in a world such as this.

She could remember as a child asking her mother to read one book in particular over and over. It told the story of a group of field mice preparing for winter. As the mice scurried around gathering and preparing, one mouse seemed to be just daydreaming all the warm days away.

Winter came, as winter always does, and soon the mice were all snuggled in their warm, safe home. But as the days passed they began to get cranky and a little stir crazy. 'We should throw you out,' they said to the daydreaming mouse. 'You did not help us prepare for the winter.'

'Yes, I did,' he answered. 'And I was waiting for a day like this. Listen.' Then the little mouse proceeded to tell stories so vivid that it was as if he had brought with him the sunshine or the taste of green grass.

'Yes,' they all agreed. 'Yours was the most important preparation for the winter.'

That is what I am doing, Hermione thought, I am bringing beauty and summer to this winter world.

The second flash of light brought her out of her reverie. At first she did not comprehend what it was. In the second that it took the pieces to fit into place, she was in a rage.

"I told you no pictures! How dare you violate my wishes in my own home!" The wheel and clay tumbled to the stone floor with a dull thud. "You will give me that camera and leave this building at once!"

"There, love, it will be alright. No harm in a picture. We hardly got your face at all, promise," chided the reporter. He had safely concealed the offending camera in his robes and was slowly moving back towards the door. "Besides, I am not sure what you are so worked up about. None of your stylistic secrets will be revealed. We will not give out your address, and you are over an hour broom ride from Prague in perfect weather." Hermione had by now recovered her wand and was following him to the door with a decidedly threatening air. "Speaking of Prague, I really must be going if I am to make it back before deadline. Thank you for the interview. I will make sure you are owled a copy."

"Arggh!" Hermione helped the door to slam after his retreating from before she slumped down onto the floor. "Well, Crookshanks I should have known better than to deal with the Daily Prophet again. Why did I ever allow Violet Greystone to talk me into the article? You would think her current cut as agent to the famous Jane James would be quite enough!" On guard for more flying objects, the tabby had climbed onto Hermione's lap, where she fell into absently petting him. "There really is nothing we can do about it now is there? I hope the light was too bad for any of the images to come out properly. People will see what they want to see, they always do. Besides, it has been four years since anyone has known me as anything but Jane James. It will be fine.

But you missed your dinner while I was talking to that leech! Come on; let's see what we've got then." But despite her words, a knot of worry had lodged in the back of her mind.

"Wormtail! Get! In! Here! I swear; it is hard enough trying to keep the Muggles from suspecting anything without you running around with that utterly wasted silver hand!" Lucius never raised his voice nor took his eyes from his breakfast, yet with each word a hot spike of anger dug into Wormtail. "Oh, and Wormtail, I do hope you remembered to bring my Sunday Prophet."

"Here it is. I don't know why you can't just get it owled to you like everyone else. But I don't know how you can stand being around Muggles all day either," he added with a snide smile. His blow hit the mark. In a flash, Lucius had sprung up and grabbed him by a grubby shirt collar.

"You know very well that as the Muggle Prime Minister I have appearances to keep up. And you also know the importance of the position I hold given the master's interests in the Muggle War. I would think you would speak more wisely," hissed Lucius.

"And I know very well that you would be Minister of Magic right now if your son had not been stupid enough to switch sides." Wormtail hit the wall, knocking down one of the strangely still Muggle paintings, before he registered being thrown. The pain caused his head to spin, and for a moment he thought he would utterly disgrace himself and pass out.

"Lucius, Lucius, I am surprised by you. And displeased. You know how I feel about people treating my things poorly," said a cold voice from the fireplace. Lucius, who had his armed raised in mid-curse, stopped dead and grew pale. "Sit; finish your breakfast before it gets cold. I know what stock you set in such... physical comforts," said the voice. "I assume you know why I am here. I want a full report on the Muggle War; things are progressing along I presume? Germany will fall next?"

"Yes, my lord, of course. And my deepest apologies." Lucius tried not to see the joyful look on Wormtail's face as he crawled towards a plush green armchair. But instead of sitting in it, he simply rested his head against the seat, as if the act of climbing into a chair might be too much for him. "Germany should be under our control within the month."

"Good. Oh, and Wormtail, do stop provoking Lucius. He does have a point; your hand is a little conspicuous. I thought we had discussed a concealing spell?" There was a dangerous note in Voldemort's voice; it was never a good sign when he was being this congenial. Wormtail cringed.

"But master, it... it burns so."

"Stop whining and stand up, you disgust me," snapped Voldemort. "I really..."

"Gods, Granger!" exclaimed Lucius, who had risen to his feet while staring at a page from the Prophet, seemingly unaware that he had just interrupted the Dark Lord.

"Granger... Granger... you mean the boy's Mudblood?" Voldemort's voice seemed to almost purr at the prospect of the last and infamous member of the Order being unearthed.

"Yes, my lord, it appears she is living near Prague, under an assumed name, as an artist or artisan or some sort. Still not much to look at, is she?" Lucius handed the paper to the hand not protruding from the marble fireplace, his composure quite regained.

"You always were overly concerned with looks, Lucius. You miss so much." Voldemort turned back, his eyes narrowing as he quickly scanned the article and accompanying picture of a young woman sitting at a potter's wheel, absently brushing strands of her bushy brown hair away from her face. "Ah... so it is Miss Granger, after all this time, the brains behind the boy. Is it really any wonder she is the last to be found? But you have slipped up this time, little one. I believe I can use this..." Both Lucius and Wormtail looked slightly uncomfortable to be overhearing the Dark Lord's murmurings.

"Do you want me to send a group to dispose of her?" asked Wormtail.

"No, I believe I might have other plans for her. After all, I wouldn't want it to be said I destroyed... what it was they all called her... "The cleverest witch of her age."

"Surely you don't actually mean to employ... I mean she is a Mudblood!" Lucius looked utterly aghast at the very idea.

"Think, Lucius. She is a symbol: Harry Potter's best friend, the last remaining member of the so called DA, the last of the Order of the Phoenix. They whisper her name in the same tone of awe and wonder that Muggles reserve for King Arthur. She is a legend. And like all good legends, no one really believes she is still alive. Now imagine it, she will be not only resurrected but will resurface as a devoted follower in my service. We can't just destroy such a powerful statement. No, this will take a subtle persuasion. Wormtail! Attend me now!" snapped Voldemort. "And fetch an owl on your way to my chambers."

With a slight pop he left the fireplace, not even pausing to acknowledge Wormtail's clumsy bow. "Still an errand-boy, are we," sneered Lucius.

"Go play with your Muggles, Prime Minister," spat Wormtail before he hurried out of the room, silver hand in plain sight.

Hermione's mother's story comes fromt eh children's book Frederick by Leo Lionni


	3. Contact

Author's Notes: You may have read this as Nepenthes. I have reworked, revised, and expanded that story into this. It is longer and some of the motivations of different characters have been changed. However if you absolutely do not want to reread or even skim the reworked chapters then please skip to chapter 6, that is where you will get the second part of what was Nepenthes. My beta is the amazing and wonderful Madam Celeste she is great and I can not thank her enough!

Contact

The owl's arrival woke her up just before dawn. She was not really surprised to see it. Ever since that ill-fated article, owls had been bombarding her at all times of the day. True, most were commissions; she had not been so busy since the NEWTs. But really, she thought, rolling out of bed, this is getting a little ridiculous. Still, she knew Violet would skin her alive should she decide to go on a long-term vacation just now, despite how appealing just disappearing sounded. How many times can one woman reinvent a new life?

Sighing, she pulled a slightly frayed blue shawl around her to ward against the grey chill of the morning. She was awake, there really was no help for it, so she might as well do something useful.

By the time the tea kettle was happily boiling and Hermione turned her thoughts back to the small brown owl at the window, she had been joined by a larger pompous-looking white one. With a pang she thought of Hedwig. She paused to look for a treat to give it. This is silly, she thought. I can't go treating every white owl as if they were Hedwig. I can't afford it! Memories of Hogwarts had been intruding into her daily life more and more often, it seemed. Shaking her head, she waved her wand and the window opened.

"Here we go," she murmured collecting the letters and sending the owls back on their way. Throughout the morning, she collected an assortment of letters, notes, and even two small packages. All of them were put aside unopened, it was her ritual to look at the mail during lunch and then again after dinner, otherwise she would be opening letters all day and never get anything done.

She was having trouble with a piece. Although the magic danced from her fingertips and the image of what she wanted to create burned in her mind, she just could not seem to get the clay to do what she wanted. It was a memory piece. She had made a few before. The client gives her two or three memories and she incorporates elements into the piece. The shape of a flower given on a first date, the color of a mother's eyes, the texture of a favorite blanket lost to the years; these elements combined into an often extremely personal piece. But this time she kept losing focus somewhere. Images of Harry chasing the snitch into the dazzling sunlight, or Ron, reading a book upside down because he wanted her to believe he had been studying; and in his hurry, had not noticed, even the determined look on Draco Malfoy's face as he started his suicidal charge towards Lord Voldemort. For some reason it was her memories she kept incorporating instead of her client's mundane memories of a Christmas morning and a child's first steps.

She needed a break and to clear her head. In a fit of frustration, she decided to take an early lunch and go through the morning's mail. The first two letters were more commission requests; the second from a witch who signed herself as a princess no less. She decided not to accept that commission; the last thing she wanted was more drama and publicity. The third letter proved to be from an overconfident young wizard offering himself as an apprentice.

"Fat chance," she snorted before murmuring a charm to send the letter up in a puff of reddish smoke. "Really, I swear, you claim to be a recluse and every arrogant young fool thinks he or she is just the one to be your chosen protégé and, of course, your public face to the world! Ah, Crookshanks, we don't need any of them, do we? Fine, stay over there by the door and ignore me, silly cat. I don't want to share any of my milk with you anyway."

When not even the enticement of milk seemed to move the cat, she turned back to her stack of mail. The corner of a card sticking out half-way down the pile caught her attention. It was made from an extremely heavy cream paper and bore a ragged edge, which had been dyed a rich black. Clearly, a very expensive note card. Her eyes widened and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she scanned the elegant script.

She was so absorbed in the letter that she did not notice the tall figure standing just behind her. Embarrassed by her lack of response, he cleared his throat again. "Excuse me, Miss Gran --- James, Jane James?"

With a startled cry, Hermione rounded on the disheveled young wizard. Before he could utter a word of explanation, his wand was pressed into the hollow of his throat.

"Who are you? And what, in the name of all the gods who ever walked, are you doing here?" she asked.

"Miss James," he swallowed audibly. "I have been looking for you for years. Ever since Neville... You are her, aren't you? You're Hermione Granger?"

"You still have not told me who you are," Hermione pointed out once it became clear that he was not going to continue. She was surprised by how level her voice sounded. She had not released the pressure on her wand, or she was sure it would be shaking in her hand. He knew her.

"Paul. I am Paul Listman. I am with the resistance. There with that sentence I have given you the information to condemn me. Please, we need you. I think we could have a chance if you would only listen to me. Please, just hear me out, I won't betray you. How could I, without betraying myself."

Slowly, Hermione lowered her want. He would think it was his earnest plea which had won her over, but she knew better. As he stood there in his old robe, with its barely concealed tattered sleeves, and look of fierce desperation, he looked more like Ron than her heart could take, despite his brown hair and swarthy skin.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, already turning into the next room, needing to get away from this walking ghost.

"Hmm? Yeah, thanks." His surprise at the abrupt change in topic and tone was evident in his voice.

"Sit, sit," she instructed from the dim kitchen. Silently she blessed the darkness, it would not do to have him see the tears she felt threatening. "You mentioned Neville Longbottom. I am assuming you fought with him?"

"Yes and no, I was in Paris when he fell, but my mother held me out of the fighting. It was a terrible day. They say it will go down as the last of the Dark Lord's wars for Western Europe, Germany sure isn't putting up much of a fight. But we all think of it as the first battle of the resistance. From Neville's mistakes we will launch the great Wars of Freedom." The rickety chair creaked and groaned as he leaned back, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the legendary best friend of Harry Potter, now that she was no longer threatening him.

"Pity, I have not heard any glorious news form any great 'War of Freedom', as you call it." It came out harsher than she has intended, but it hurt her more than she would have thought to hear of Neville's fight and death spoken so callously. After Harry fell, Molly Weasley had grabbed her, and a portkey was shoved into her numb hands. Mercifully, she did not remember anything else until waking to find Neville had also escaped and was offering her a restorative potion. He said she had been raving half-mad about Voldemort's marking her with his eyes. She left with her parents for the States the next day. Neville had declined all offers to come with them.

She was in a small town in West Virginia when she heard about Neville's death in Paris. The scattered remains of the old DA had joined with the few members of the Order and the remaining Aurors. Uniting under Neville's leadership, they made their stand in the streets of Paris herself. To the best of her knowledge, she was the last of those old groups to draw breath. This, she knew, was why a young, idealistic wizard called Paul, was now sitting in her study waiting for her to bring him tea and hope.

With a sigh, she realized two truths simultaneously; the tea was boiling, and he had started talking about his glorious resistance again.

At least the boy has passion, she thought as she brought the steaming mugs into the study, a little overzealous but he defiantly believes in his cause. For a moment, she allowed a small wistful smile; "the boy" as she thought of him, was barely two years younger than her twenty-two years, when did she start to feel old?

Turning into the room, she stopped cold. Just a few centimeters from his left hand sat the letter she had been reading when he walked in. Its black edging seemed to absorb all light, demanding her attention, her notice. Under no circumstances could she allow him to see that letter.

"I know that it is quaint, but I much prefer a cup of tea made in the Muggle fashion. Something subtle about the flavor changes when you use magic, I think. Plus, I love to watch the color change as it gets sleep. Would you like to see?" Carefully, she set the mug down on this right side, forcing herself not to even glance at the letter.

"Oh... hmm... yes, thank you." Watching him carefully, she moved into the chair closest to the letter. Making sure he was politely looking into his mug, she smoothly slipped the letter into a fold in her robe.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard something. Did you hear that?" Hermione asked with a self-depreciating smile.

"Oh, I didn't hear anything. Do you want me to go check it out?" With a movement from Hermione's hand, he sat back down. "Well, I was saying that we really need to act fast now. We have spies inside that say his most recent attempt failed, but he is funneling all of his energies into achieving true immortality. It is really only a matter of time now."

With a start, Hermione realized she was unconsciously fingering the note in her pocket. Disgusted with herself, she clasped both hands in her lap so tightly her fingernails bit into her skin.

"Once he becomes truly immortal, no one will be able to touch him, or restrain him. Not a Muggle blade or the strongest spell will have any effect. It will all be his and all dependant on his whim, or boredom." In a strange echo of the past's fear to mention the name of Voldemort, Paul had whispered the last words, as if speaking such a future aloud was too horrible to be contemplated.

"Yes, I see," she said with a touch more irritation than she actually felt. She felt numb and worried. "But what does this have to do with me? No, I see that too. What exactly are of asking of me?"

"Help us. You name alone is power but your intelligence, your genius, is the missing weapon we need. You could find the chinks in his armor and you could find how to exploit them. I am not saying you have to be a public figure. If you wish I will be the only one to know anything at all. No one will even know if you are alive for sure. Whatever you want."

"I will think on it."

"That is all I can ask of you today," he said, gently patting her hand, relieved that the conversation was finally under his control. "I have bothered you far too long, and will go. If you wish to get in touch with me, for any reason, owl Pierre LeBon."

"Yes, thank you... I will remember." He was gone before she could rise to say goodbye. For a long time she sat staring into the empty space he had inhabited. She realized a part of her hand been waiting for him to come. She had been waiting for one side or the other to find her. She had always known this house, this career, was a temporary sanctuary at best.

The shadows had gathered in the corners of the room before she moved to take the note out of her robe. In the dim light, only the signature was clearly visible:

Regards,

Lord Voldemort


	4. Corespondence

Author's Notes: You may have read this as Nepenthes. I have reworked, revised, and expanded that story into this. It is longer and some of the motivations of different characters have been changed. However if you absolutely do not want to reread or even skim the reworked chapters then please skip to chapter 6, that is where you will get the second part of what was Nepenthes. My beta is the amazing and wonderful Madam Celeste she is great and I can not thank her enough!

Correspondence

May 31

Dear Miss "James",

I must confess, I had expected a more interesting pseudonym. I am assuming the "James" is in homage to the dearly departed Mr. Potter. Touching but a tad predictable, don't you agree? Well, far be it from me to fault a name change. The ones we are given can become so awkward as we out grow them. Still, I must say Hermione is far more pleasing than plain old Jane.

I was delighted to read about you in the Prophet. The mysterious Jane James. Narcissa had been raving about your work for years now. She is quite a fan, quite the collector. She would love to meet you in person, maybe get a piece or two signed. But... I do suppose that would be quite problematic for you, wouldn't it? I dare say you would lose a buyer. Pity.

Still, I find myself also becoming a fan of your work and would love to request a commission from you. Don't worry, I am sure your skill is up to the task. I need a ritual vessel. Something with the old serpent imagery worked in, we must keep tradition. Oh, and you will need to be sure to use spells that will not react poorly with blood, human or otherwise. The rest I leave up to your artistic vision.

I await your letter.

Regards,

Lord Voldemort

June 7

Dear Miss "James",

I am not so much surprised by your failure to respond to my last letter as disappointed. You must know that this tendency to ignore potential clients will have a marked negative effect on sales. Ah, but maybe I am mistaken and your delay is just because you are having trouble with the blood spell requirement. What have you come up with so far? Maybe I can offer my humble assistance, if you find yourself stuck? What use is your intelligence, your destiny, if you keep all of your brilliance to yourself, telling only a spoiled cat? You can't sit in your hideout playing with dirt and water forever. Eventually your mind will tear itself apart.

I still await your reply.

Regards,

Lord Voldemort

June 12

Dear Sir,

If I were attempting the spell, which I will not, I would try modifying the pronunciation to an archaic form of Etruscan instead of the more typical Latin ending. I would consult Unveiling Enchantment, but I do not have a copy here so that may be the wrong text referral. If all still failed me, I would try combining Portus with Incendio and Crucio, since you have no moral qualms in using it. I believe that a melding of those three spells should give you a result that, with minor modification, should give you the desired outcome.

But you, I am sure, know this already. Why do you ask me? Also, I am afraid I am too overbooked, I cannot accept your commission. I do not work in blood.

Respectfully,

Hermione (Let's have enough of those name games.)

June 18

Dear Miss Granger,

You ask me why I wrote you; yes, I knew of the Etruscan pronunciation and have consulted several books, Unveiling Enchantment being one but not nearly as helpful as The Distant Mystique I did not, however, think to combine those three spells you mentioned. My compliments on devising such a remedy. I will try it on a few of my own vessels and inform you of the results. You have great fame as being a person of unique mind... and you are wasting it.

Tell me, do you avoid mirrors at all cost? When you happen to catch your reflection, do you cringe because you are forever holding yourself up against who you thought you would be? You have not become who you wanted to be, who you still could become, thus you have been waiting these long empty years for the chance to prove to the world, and more importantly to yourself, that you are a person of intelligence and bravery.

There is no shame in accepting the change that has already occurs. Indeed it often seems to take more courage to accept one's losses and move on, to protect one's self and interests and rise about the situation. But these are Slytherin virtues I am extolling and they must sound repugnant to you.

Truly your stubborn loyalty to your fallen cause is a testament to your house. You are a true Gryffindor. But there is no more Hogwarts as you and I knew it in our school days. The old house rivalries have finally been put to rest. Dumbledore would be proud after all.

By the way, I took the liberty of contacting Violet Greystone. She informed me that you are not at all overbooked; indeed you are turning down more commissions than you normally accept. She was ever so gracious and assured me that you would be honored to craft a piece for me. It seems our business deal is still on my dear.

Regards,

Voldemort

June 21

Dear Sir,

I admit, you played me nicely but then I am witnessing a master, am I not? I would not have thought of you as one to stoop to games with simple artists, artists of non-magical birth at that. You see, I am an artist. My "dirt and water" do not accuse me and my days pass quite nicely. I need for no one.

I do wonder about you though. You have not achieved immortality yet; who knows, maybe that is the reason for this ritual vessel and I am unwittingly helping you. A chilling thought. You temporarily stepped down from power allowing your lackeys to run everything while you single-mindedly pursued your goal. But I wonder what you would do without that goal. All the driving forces in your life are leaving you. No Harry to be your archenemy and then no immortality to chase, what will you do when you are faced with an empty eternity? I was able to find solace in the mundane but I do not think you will be.

Please excuse my frankness. I speak out of frustration and to be quite honest, anger. I do not like having my hand forced nor do I like playing games, you will have your commission but when will the blow really fall?

Hermione

June 25

Dear Hermione,

Good, I shall expect delivery in two weeks at the absolute latest. As far as specifics go, it should be able to hold at least four quarts of, well let's say liquid, to protect your delicate sensibilities. And along with the aforementioned serpent pattern, I would like the color silver incorporated in some manner. Again, the rest I leave to you as proof in my belief in your artistic ability. Oh, I know you do have some talent but don't hide behind the simple title of artist with me, child. You are also so much more. False modesty is overrated, my dear.

So, your days pass nicely do they? But what of your nights? Do you sleep well, Hermione? Do you rest well with your ghosts?

It is easy to see that you would not have lasted long in Slytherin, or maybe you would have, you have proven wonderfully adaptive so far. I do not want the minister's job. Really child, can you see me sitting in an office listening to ever minor complaint? It is better to be the power behind the throne as it were. It is better to be the one pulling the strings than to be bogged down in the paper work of day to day life. And there will always be a lackey, as you so aptly but it, to do my paperwork for me. Better to be the shadowy presence in the back of the council chamber, whose word is unquestioned law. I exercise a power unlike that sham ministries mortals set up.

As for your other question, 'how will I fill an eternity?' I am surprised by you; surely you know that there will always be something to learn. Study and experiments alone could fill an eternity quite nicely, that you for the concern though. But then, maybe it was not me you were truly concerned about. Worried about an empty future, Hermione? We could earn much you and me. And I would give you meaning again. Nothing would be expected or required of you. You could learn to trust me. It is disheartening to picture you alone with a book in your studio, no one to argue with but the wind.

But I should know better than to tempt such an exemplary Gryffindor with such things. It is a pity thought.

I expect a delivery in two weeks, remember.

Ever,

Voldemort

June 27

Dear Sir,

I can have the piece shipped in eight days. I trust that will prove sufficient?

And yes, you are correct; my life did not take the course I set out in my girlhood, but then whose life really does? Not even yours turned out exactly as you planned, I would imagine. You speak of my wasted talents and learning but are you not doing the same thing yourself? What are you playing at with your Death Eaters and Dark Revels? Yes, I can see the perverse need for them when you were fighting against order and light, but why keep it up now? You waste your talents with your petty torments as surely as I do mine with my escapism.

Do you ever regret the path you chose? I know you will never tell me if you do, neither your pride nor your justified lack of trust in me will allow that answer to be set in ink. Still regret, I have come to believe, is part of the human condition so I must think that you do. Regret but also being bound to our roles. I cannot hold the memories I have inside me and give a passing thought to such selfish temptations as you describe. Please understand this.

Sincerely,

Hermione

June 27

My dear Hermione,

You already have given it more than a passing thought, or I would not have asked.

Yes, sometimes ever I regret the choices I have made, but I do not regret the path I walk. There was never a choice that I could see. Mine is the path of destiny and we all finally bow to her wishes. And that is exactly what I am working against. To win immortality is to also break free from man's wretched destiny of death. This is why I seek such power, to break out of fate. Can you not see this?

You are surprised I answered your question. I have nothing to hide; I am beyond such things. And I could raise you to be as well. No more hiding in the shadows; no more weeks passed in silence; no more ideas scribbles out in scrapes of paper for the sole reason that you know they would consume you if you did not get them out, even if only to throw them away. You could act on any idea which came into your head. I would put all you could need in your service.

I am afraid I will not be in to pick up your package until the 6th of July. That should give you an extra day or so to work. Duties of state call. Dolohov is something of a disappointment as Minister of Magic. You remember Dolohov don't you? I believe he almost hilled you once. Ah, but why live in the past? Lucius should have his job. But then again living with Lucius and his love of ceremony and pomp would grow tiring. For Friday, he has orchestrated a review of the troops of all things and I am to attend. Solidarity in times of war and all that. Since it is my war I might as well show support.

Ever,

Voldemort

July 1

To Pierre Le Bon

Sir, I am writing you with the most fortuitous news. I have heard from a friend, known to you by reputation only, that there is to be a military parade on July 5th. However, I am a little unsure as to the reliability of this bit of news. My friend seemed over eager to tell, but I believe there may be a reason for you to want to attend and bring several of your friends. This may prove to be the type of day we were hoping for. One not to be missed.

Hope all is well,

J. James

July 1

Lord Voldemort,

I didn't expect such a frank response to my more rhetorical question. Trust is such a strange thing. We speak of it as if it is an either or deal; I either trust you or I don't, but really there are levels to how much we trust. It is all too easy to trust an unseen correspondent. I wonder where I stand with you?

Delivery can be moved to the 6th without any problems, but really a military parade? I am afraid your news took me by surprise. I am assuming you will be an honored spectator and no more. Indeed, the thought of you strolling down the street followed by a brass band is further than I can stretch my imagination. If you do go, be careful.

Take care,

Hermione

July 3

Dearest Hermione,

This will be the last time we correspond, I fear, as I assume I will be seeing you on the battlefield tomorrow. Surely you are not surprised. I have a very good network of spies. I know all about "Pierre's" plans, most likely more than you, and your little, expected, betrayal. I must say I was taken aback by your concern for my safety though. Did you think to subtly warn me away? Touching.

Ah, but then it seems you may have formed a bond. Notice how easily, by your second letter no less, you were comparing yourself to me. And why should that not be? We were both the brightest and best of our generations. If only you had been in Hogwarts with me, what a pair we would have made. I do hope you do not feel too ill used now at the end and I am sorry not to see your work. I am sure you made a magnificent piece for me.

But who knows what tomorrow may bring? I will wish you the same care you wished me.

Till then,

Voldemort

After it was all over, when the ragged band, all that remained of the resistance, struggled into Hermione's cottage seeking sanctuary, they found Lord Voldemort's last letter where it had been dropped, next to a puddle of wax and a cold mug of Darjeeling tea.


	5. Nepenthes

Author's Notes: You may have read this as Nepenthes. I have reworked, revised, and expanded that story into this. It is longer and some of the motivations of different characters have been changed. However if you absolutely do not want to reread or even skim the reworked chapters then please skip to chapter 6, that is where you will get the second part of what was Nepenthes. My beta is the amazing and wonderful Madam Celeste she is great and I can not thank her enough!

Nepenthes

Her arm was bruising. By tomorrow there would be finger shaped marks staining her flesh if she did not get a chance to heal them soon. Assuming she would be alive tomorrow. No real hope in healing then anytime soon either.

The Death Eaters who held her were moving fast. Technically, they were ministry guards, but mask or no mask their men would always be Death Eaters. They were betrayed by something in the way they moved and a look in their eyes; Voldemort's thugs. Why didn't they just kill here? Surely she had served her purpose by betraying the last hope of rebellion in Britain. They had not even disarmed her. True, both arms were held so tightly that she could not reach the wand in her pocket, but still they must know it was there. Why this charade of legality?

She had rushed out of her house the moment Voldemort's last letter sunk in. He knew. She had been nothing but a witless pawn and worse she had sent Paul to his death. It stung, but worse, underneath her hurt pride was a feeling that was dangerously close to disappointed heartbreak. Did she really care about his opinion? She arrived in London with the dawn.

She never made it to Paul's camp. Walking down the deserted alley that held the secret entrance to the rebel camp, she was reminded of just why Muggles avoided such places. They were creepy, full of shadows, and who know what might be hiding just out of sight. When the hand fastened itself around her arm she shrieked.

"Hush girl," a rough voice hissed in her ear. Another figure appeared at her other side, claiming the right arm as well. "You need to come with us. We know that your friend is hiding in that building there and if you don't want to see the whole thing go up in flames you'll come easy. This way there is always the chance that he will chicken out and live to fight tomorrow."

The laughter which followed that statement chilled Hermione almost as much as the feeling of a wand pressed discretely against her back. Silently, she turned and allowed herself to be led away, but not before dropping one of her business cards onto the damp stones. It was a thin hope but maybe Paul would see it and suspect something was wrong.

Yet, as her captors kept walking whatever hope she had died. Her mind rose up in rebellion and she saw Paul lying in a clump of flowers. As his blood soaked into the soil she cursed so that the garden would never bloom again. Just off to her right she watched a small redheaded figure crumple to the ground in grief.

But no, that was not Paul at all, it was Fred Weasley who died in a Muggle flower garden, miles away from this London Street. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the past.

Mistaking her movement for fight, the man on her left gave her arm a violent shake. "Be still." The wand at her back pressed harder as Hermione walked on with her ghosts. In her mind she saw Luna and Lavender cut down. She again watched Seamus, weighting the options and choosing to stand with Voldemort, but not before poisoning Cormac McLaggen and Colin Creevey. Stepping out of the early morning fog, she watched Mad-Eye Moody take his final insane charge into a line of Death Eaters. Everywhere she looked faces from her past rose up but whether to warn or condemn her, she did not know.

After what seemed like a lifetime but which could not have been longer than an hour, they stopped in a doorway. It looked like any empty store front in this rundown part of town, except for the lack of dust on the door handle. Clearly, this door saw regular use.

Muttering what sounded suspiciously like "Alohomora", one of her guards pushed open the door and led her in. The inside looked like nothing so much as a hallway in a Muggle luxury hotel. Warm peach light filtered down onto cream colored walls, walls broken every so often by silent shut doors. Tucked into empty corners, elegant tables stood, backs to the wall, proudly displaying vases of flowers or an antique lamp. The only things missing were the numbers from the doors. Counting in her head, she noticed that they stopped before the thirteenth door, but turning back to look down the hall she could not distinguish the door they had entered from. She did not trust herself to find it again.

After giving three sharp raps, her guard turned the knob and held the door just open enough for her to pass through. As soon as she cleared the threshold, it swung shut leaving her alone. Cautiously, she pulled out her wand before turning to inspect the room.

If the outside resembled a Muggle hotel, this room looked like how she imagined what Galileo's quarters must have. It was made of stone, circular, and rather small. There was a large window cut into the ceiling looking up into the sky. The furnishings were Spartan but well made. Books and stacks of papers were everywhere. A fireplace near where she stood had burned down giving off a minimal glow. If the window was opened she was sure the room would be flooded with light, but the dark shutters were pulled resolutely shut.

At first she assumed the room to be empty. Robed and hooded, the figure blended into the shadows so well that, had he not moved, she might never have seen him.

"Hermione, we are well acquainted strangers, are we not?" he asked with a slight ironic bow, although his features remained hidden in the darkness of his hood.

"What are you doing here? Why... hum... I mean... shouldn't you be out crushing a harmless rebellion?" Her face, which had drained of its color with the shock of his voice, now flushed a deep pink as she struggled to make her posture perfectly straight and defiant.

"No, I came only for you."

"Me, but...I thought..."

"Yes, I am afraid your friend's little rebellion was not really enough of a challenge to warrant my actual presence. Lucius will handle it, I am sure." Holding out his hand, he slowly moved towards her.

She stared at the hand, its long fingers, its pale skin, and swallowed hard. He was waiting. She had the feeling that they would stand there, frozen by her indecision, until the building crumbled around them. Slowly she raised her own hand and placed it in his.

As soon as her skin touched his he changed position, allowing his fingers to twine shockingly, intimately with her own. Gently, he pulled her towards him, positioning them under the window.

"I thought we had a date on the battlefield?" she asked hoping to cover how flustered she felt.

"I grew impatient, besides, wars have uncertain outcomes and even a 'Do not harm' order does not forgo all accidents."

"You would not have enjoyed the risk?"

"Only if I had stacked the outcome."

His eyes were dark and deeply red, absently she thought of blood settling into Muggle test tubes, and they bore into her, demanding that she look, refusing to let her look away, not even when she heard the door open again. Not even when he spoke.

"Wormtail, bring it here." He turned then, breaking eye contact and all of her fears and doubts came crashing in. He held her hand firm yet she twisted enough to catch a glimpse through the shutters on the window. Surely that could not be twilight already. No, she had seen a sky like this before. It was smoke. The battle. Harry was falling. He hit the ground hard and his head bounced back up, an unnatural angle for a neck to assume. A voice she only barely realized was her own was screaming his name. She tasted vomit. Unthinkingly, she raised her head and met red eyes, deeply red eyes. The screaming stopped. Molly Weasley was trying to shove something into her arms but she could not look away. She was caught in red eyes.

"Hermione," he said with slight warning tone in his voice. Firmly, he pulled her back towards him. With a gasp, she felt her hip painfully bump against the corner of the table. In a way she was glad for it; the pain cleared her head a little and brought her back to reality.

He must have seen something of this inner struggle in her eyes, for her put his other hand on her shoulder, steadying her for a moment before speaking.

"You have heard of the poet Homer, I assume?"

Mutely, she nodded.

"Did you know he was a wizard? Not a very great one, although he has been very useful. His books, mere poetry and history to Muggles, hold the secrets for some of the strongest potions and charms known to the ancients. Do you know of Nepenthes?"

"No," she whispered.

"Ah, it is one of the finest potions: 'a drug to dull all pain and anger, and bring forgetfulness of every sorrow. Who so should drink a draught thereof, when it is mingled in the bowl, on that day he would let no tear fall down his cheeks, not thought his mother and his father died, not thought men slew his brother or dear son with the sword before his face, and his own eyes beheld it.' According to legend, it was this potion Helen of Troy would offer her guests, a great gift, don't you think? And some say, this was what Paris gave to her to make her his. It is a potion which allows one to forget their burden of memory and to escape from their ghosts. It is a potion to make you free."

Despite herself, Hermione was letting his voice ensnare her. It wrapped around her mind and drew her to him, even as the words intrigued her intellect. How easy the voice seemed to hiss to her unconsciousness, how easy it would be to just stop fighting, just to give in. Let him take care of everything.

The rush of cold air on her hand surprised her. She stared at it as if it was a strangers hand somehow grafted onto her own arm while she was not paying attention. Of course he had just dropped her hand to pour a glass of dark liquid from the flask Wormtail had brought, but she felt truly lost without that contact.

Turning back to her, Voldemort carefully placed the simple wooden cup into her hands, but he left his own cupped around hers. "You said to me once," he murmured his voice low and insidious, "that you could not hold the memories you carry inside you and give a passing thought to my offer. Well, I am stacking the outcome. Drink deep, child, come to me."

His eyes had caught her again, yet even how he was not quite close enough for her to make out more than a shadow of his features under the hood. She lifted the cup to her lips, his hands following her gesture, but she stopped just before tasting.

"Paul?"

"He is dead," the voice was soft not, caressing even as it spoke tragedy. "The battle has already been fought and lost."

A strange emotion flickered in Hermione's eyes, regret and resignation but also relief. Slowly, she took a sip if the potion.

The sound of her wand hitting the stone floor startled Wormtail. He had been standing at the doorway, not wanting to stay but not yet released from his master's presence. As the noise he glanced at the pair. Voldemort gently took the cup from her hands and seemed to consider something he read in her eyes. Throwing back his hood and smiling in a way that caused Wormtail to cringe, he looped his arm around Hermione's waist and lowered his head to claim her mouth.

Wormtail decided he need not wait to be formally released and scampered through the door. As he was leaving he turned and cast one last, troubled look over his shoulder at the embracing couple silhouetted in the dying firelight. He paused only long enough to hear the door click closed behind him before he made his way back out onto the London street.

Voldemort quotes Homer, the Iliad, when describing Nepenthes.


	6. News Break

Author's Notes: So, finally we come to the chapters that are not reworking/expansion of Nepenthes. If you are starting here, welcome I hope you are not too confused. If you have been reading, I hope you like it. As always I need to thank my wonderful beta a hundred and ten times, so thank you Madame Celeste!

News Break

THE BALKAN STATES NEXT TO JOIN WITH BRITAIN

September 19

Anthony Peacemaker, reporter

Daily Prophet International Department

LONDON: Talks between the Minister of Magic and officials from Kosovo, Croatia, Serbia, and Bulgaria are scheduled to begin today. Vampires and other dark creature legislation are top on the list of topics for discussion, but none are likely to stand in the way of the growing alliance.

With the official cession of hostilities in Germany, the Alliance, headed here in London, now includes all of Western Europe and most of Asia.

"Look for talks with Greece and Turkey to begin next month," predicted an Ministry official. "Together we are building a more ordered world for all wizards."

WAR TO SPILL INTO BALKAN STATES

October 13

Michael Pemberton, reporter

The London Times

KOSOVO: Rebels have been sighted across the so called 'white line' this week.

"The cease fire has been breached," said Prime Minister, Lucius Malfoy, yesterday in a televised press conference. "We have no choice but to retaliate, if only to defend ourselves. Ever since the July 5th disturbance we have been expecting something like this." Prime Minister Malfoy concluded his remarks with a promise to send ten battalions of troops to the Balkan region.

No information has yet been received in regards to casualties in the breach of the ceasefire.

ANTI-MARRIAGE BAN DEMONISTRATIONS IN PARIS

November 9

Anthony Peacemaker, reporter

Daily Prophet International Department

LONDON: Three hundred couples from France, Spain, and surrounding countries Apparated to the French Ministry of Magic yesterday in protest of the Wizard/Muggle marriage ban recently put in effect throughout Europe.

"A pretty ineffectual protest if you ask me. They just stood around, chanting and keeping honest people from getting their work done," said Marcelus Williamson, a ministry employee. "But I don't see what they big fuss is about. It is not like Muggle/Wizard relationships ever work out. And this will take care of the unfortunate problem of the offspring from those marriages."

The ban, which has been in effect in Britain for over four years not with no incident, took effect throughout Western Europe just weeks after Germany's surrender earlier this summer. A similar ban is also meeting resistance in the ongoing talks with Balkan leaders.

CHRISTMAS TRUCE SIGNED

December 24

Michael Pemberton, reporter

The London Times

KOSOVO: In a move reminiscent of the World War II truce, a cease-fire has been put into effect until midnight tomorrow. The truce was separately signed by Prime Minister, Lucius Malfoy, and the temporary President of the Balkan alliance, President Voosoolo.

Upon delivering news of the truce, the Prime Minister was greeted with a standing ovation.

TALKS FINALLY COLLAPSE

January 15

Anthony Peacemaker, reporter

Daily Prophet International Department

LONDON: Negations between the Ministry of Magic and Balkan leaders finally dissolved yesterday. As the negations left the Ministry in silence, rumors of war spread. A formal declaration of war is likely to be approved later this week. Three bridges here in London have already sustained damages and a large forest fire has broken out in Bulgaria.

Minister Dolohov stated earlier today that, although the disagreements are regrettable, there needs to be a temporary halt to current talks. Other high ranking Ministry officials have indicated that no negotiations will resume until the Muggle war is sorted out.

COORDINATED ATTACKS; MANCHESTER AND SOFIA

March 15

Michael Pemberton, reporter

The London Times

SOFIA: At 6:15 this morning three coordinated bombs went off in a chopping mall in Sofia, Bulgaria. Exactly one hour later, bombs exploded in downtown Manchester. No single group had taken credit for the attacks, but suspicion is currently falling on the DE, a splinter group of Balkan radicals.

At the time of press, the fatality toll was at 700 total between the sites. Both nations' leaders have expressed grief and outrage at this latest attack on civilians. DE leaders are currently under heavy surveillance.

MUGGLE GENERAL DISAPPEARS

April 26

Anthony Peacemaker, reporter

Daily Prophet International Department

LONDON: A leading Muggle general has disappeared from his office in Varna, Bulgaria yesterday. Ministry officials suspect the involvement of renegade wizards, possibility untrained and defiantly dangerous. When the general is recovered, he will be sent to St. Mungos, where he will be checked for curses or memory wipes.

"It is unforgivable," says Jackson Lynch of the department for Muggle relations. "The more ignorant the Muggle population, the better for us all, I always say. But if they want to start attacking our Muggles, I see no reason why we should not retaliate in kind.

DEATH TOLL REACHES 9,000

June 4

Michael Pemberton, reporter

The London Times

LONDON: At sunset yesterday the death toll for British solders in the Balkan war was recorded at 9,017 dead. This number does not count the number of civilians slain in attacks on British soil.

With this news Prime Minister Malfoy's ailing poll numbers are expected to hit a career low. There is speculation of a no confidence vote before the summer's end if the war continues to stalemate.


	7. Andromache

Author's Notes: Thank you so much to my wonderful beta Madame Celeste

Andromache

The noise level of the room rose and fell; woman in glittering robes laughed, men argued and joked, silverware clinked against fine china, and chairs scrapped against the cool stone floor. Through it all Hermione sat perfectly still staring at the ripples moving through Avery's wine glass. Once Avery had set the glass down on the edge of his fork, unbalancing the cup and causing drops to slosh out, and had stained the pristine table cloth. She had shoved a fist into her mouth, barely stifling a giggle. Still smiling guiltily she glanced over at her companion to see if he had noticed.

Of course he had.

She had been sitting beside him for a little over a year now and seemed content to sit there for fifty more. As long as he keeps a steady supply of the potion coming ever night she will be docile and endlessly fascinated by the slow steady drip of a leaky faucet or the dance of an autumn leaf caught in the wind. The perfect accessory. He is content.

Still, sometimes he does catch himself wondering what her thoughts really are. Surely all that intellect can't have just dried up. It couldn't have been simply shut off; all that energy must have gone somewhere. He had thought of withholding her potion a few times just to see what she would remember from the drugged period. And to see if there are any lasting effects. But, so far, something has always stopped him. Someday he promises himself, someday he will let her go a week and see.

They say she is his consort and he allows the rumors to grow. She is not. When she was in possession of her intellect she was fascinating in her own way. Not beautiful, no, but then he was surrounded by beautiful women now. The thought of taking this child in a woman's body into his beat leaves him cold though. She would just become entrances by the folds in his sheets anyway. No, she is a doll, dressed up and brought out for the correct occasion then put back into her room until the next time she is needed.

No one has yet been foolish or brave enough to ask why he does not allow her to speak, or at least not to anyone by himself. He has always been very possessive with things that are his.

The world is made of stone. He told me so. He says I am like a child with all my questions. What I cannot understand is how I do not know these things. Everyone else seems to know them.

Sometimes I ask too many questions. He is cruel then. I do not like to think of those days, when he is cruel, when he is Lord Voldemort. I am afraid of Lord Voldemort. Lord Voldemort does not like it when I ask too many questions, or when I am clumsy. I forget where things are and walk into them. And I fall down. The bruises are fascinating though. I like to watch the colors change: purple, green, yellow, until it is just my skin again.

But there are lost of fascinating things. Some nights I stare into the fire for hours, listening to it talk and while the log slowly disappears. On special nights he will sit with me and stroke my head while he reads. I am happy on those nights.

Tonight will not be one of those good nights. Lord Voldemort is mad at me but I am not sure why. I guess I asked too many questions. I saw Paul at dinner. I am not sure who Paul is or why I know him, but I saw a man and he just looked like Paul. But he was not Paul, Paul is dead. Lord Voldemort told me I was a stupid girl and that Paul is dead when I asked him about the man. Paul must have been important to me. Was he my friend? My lover? My enemy? I am sorry he is dead.

Death makes me sad, even if I don't know who Paul was. I saw Lord Voldemort kill a boy once and I cried for two days. He would not talk to me while I cried but he would read to me. He read fairy tales and mythology; he read until I realized what he was trying to say and stopped crying. Death is in every story. Someone always dies, but never the hero. I know he will not die and leave me because who is he if not the hero?

Maybe he will not be too mad. Maybe he will read to me tonight. I would like that.

Lucius Malfoy was having a bad day. Sitting behind his desk, head in his hands, he felt more like a man awaiting execution than the celebrated Prime Minister. Oh yes, there was irony there, the stupid Muggles love him, quite of their own volition. Not a single spell has been cast and yet almost daily he gets offers of bridges or schools named after him.

But all that might be coming to an end. Both the magical and Muggle components of the war seem to have gotten bogged down in the Balkans. Neither side has been able to claim a clear victory in over two month. Poll numbers are dismal but more that that he dearly wishes ha had a victory to take to the Dark Lord when he has his audience this afternoon. He knows the Dark Lord is not going to be pleased with his other piece of news.

This morning Lucius had found himself held spellbound by his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that he did not remember and his hair, always a source of pride, was beginning to look thin and old. Tearing his eyes away he glanced down into the rubbish bin and for the second time in his life was stopped by the image of Hermione Granger.

The crumpled and stained tabloid now lay on the desk beside the reports on the war and a Muggle newspaper from three weeks ago. In retrospect, he supposed he was surprised that this hadn't happened sooner, the press loves just the sort of figure Lord Voldemort presents: enigmatic, reclusive, wealthy, and with shady ties to the government. Somehow a reporter got a hold of a picture of His Mudblood and either paid for or stumbled upon a story much too close to the truth for comfort.

There, emblazoned in bold type, was a story of slavery, mind altering drugs, and kinky sex, and all for the perverse amusement of a man calling himself 'the Dark Lord'. It was a PR nightmare. Something was going to have to be done, and soon. He just didn't know what. For a wild moment, he had actually thought about calling up the newspaper and calmly explaining that, in reality, it was a memory suppressing potion and she drank it quite willingly every night. But that conversation would have some difficult side effects.

No, the best solution, he knew, was to get the Mudblood into a conscious enough state that she could deny the story herself, for the entire world to see. Call it out as a ridiculous farce and be done with the matter. In a way it would be a nice distraction from the failing war. Unfortunately, the potion implies a mild form of the Imperius curse and thus renders the effects of the curse useless while she is under the potion.

All this trouble for a filthy Mudblood. He understood the symbolism aspect and all; but really if it was up to him he would just force her to do the interview then kill her. The number of people who could appreciate the symbolism was shrinking every day. People adapt, people forget, and life goes on. The Mudblood's world was gone, her time was over. At least to his way of thinking, but that, unfortunately, was not the opinion of the Dark Lord.

With a sigh, Lucius gathered up his papers and prepared to Apparate. It would not do to be late, especially when bearing bad news.

"Hush child, I said I was not mad. No, I think the sad fate of Andromache for tonight."

Silently, Hermione settled against the plush cushion and let his voice roll over her.

"Andromache was a princess, daughter of Eetion, King of Mysia, and wife of Hector the mightily warrior of Troy. She was a noble wife, a devoted new mother, and a gentle girl yet none of these virtues could save her from the mistake of falling in love and becoming a warrior's wife. She saw her husband, father, and all seven brothers slain but the genius or madman that was Achilles and her infant son were hurled from the city walls after being promised his life.

Maybe she accepted her inevitable capture with a numb resignation or maybe the pain and outrage still cut into her. We can only imagine, bet the fact remains, beautiful Andromache was given to Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, as a prize of war.

Somehow she was able to find the strength to take comfort in the arms of Neoptolemus, her enemy and the son of the man who wiped out her family and slew her king. A man who shared the same violent temper and insanity as his father. Yet, she lived with him as his wife, bearing him three sons and suffering the hatred of his other barren wife."

"No!" Jerking upright she glared at him with narrowed eyes. Two spots of color were clearly visible on her cheeks in the flickering firelight. "She didn't love him... did she?"

"The text does not say one way or another, but I hardly think love had anything to do with it. Love is an emotion bust left to adolescent games and fantasies, don't you think? I'll get the book and you can decide for yourself." With a hand resting on the bookshelf he turned back to her. "But does the idea of a woman learning to live with her enemy really seem so farfetched to you?"

"Oh." For a brief moment he thought he saw a gleam of recognition in Hermione's eyes but it was quickly gone.

"Here is the book."

"No, that is okay, I believe you."

The room fell into silence. Hermione stared into the fire while he slowly flipped through the ancient book.

"Sir," she said at last, breaking the spell. "You did not bring me my drink tonight."

"No, we are going to take a break from that for a while." Setting the book down on an end table he moved over to stand beside her seated form, watching and waiting.

"The drink, it is more than a sleep aid, isn't it?" She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with great care, all the while careful not to raise her eyes from the fire.

"Yes, yes it is. I think it is time for bed now, Hermione."

Obediently she rose. "Goodnight sir."

"Goodnight child." He watched her retreating form step into the next room before moving over to his desk and jotting down a few notes. She had already come far from under the potion's influence. She did not seem to be recovering her former memories yet, but still her mind was defiantly beginning to wake. Lucius's interview was not until the next week, for a moment her wondered if he had not started to wean her off too soon. He did not trust Andromache not to put a knife into Neoptolemus's back, and he did not want to be forced to lose her now.

Once again Voldemort is referring to Homers the Iliad only this time it is much edited and heavily manipulated to get a specific point across. I hope Homer, if he really was an old blind poet, can forgive me.


	8. Consumed

Author's Notes: Sorry for the wait. As always a huge thank you to my wonderful beta; Madame Celeste!

Consumed

Every night as he drifts off to sleep, Agent 27 curses Hermione Granger. It is a childish grudge, one he cannot quite bring himself to own and set down on paper, though the Gods know every other tiny thing that runs through his head gets set down in his daily log. Maybe he is afraid his bitterness will look silly on paper; maybe he is afraid of confining Hermione to a thin two-dimensional sheet. She is so real to him.

He blames her for his current position. Logically, he knows it this is supremely unfair and he would have wound up here eventually. He has been reassigned to the Muggle underclass. From the position of a slick double agent to a cheep common informant basically doing crowd control for the growing Muggle poor; the change was dramatic.

No one can say Lord Voldemort does not learn from the past. After Snape's betrayal, no spy was allowed to stay in a position of confidence or power for long. He knew this was coming but really, did she have to cave into Lord Voldemort so fast? As for his current assignment, well Voldemort has also studied enough history to know that the Muggle underclass was where unrest and rebellion were most likely to grow. And so it is that he, the man once known as Paul Listman and now simply called David has been sent to live on the streets. It could be worse; he could have been put on leave and left with out anything.

Rolling over, he is still to bitter to sleep. Rational or not, he couldn't help but blame Hermione Granger, though if he was honest with himself he would've had to wonder if he was upset over his less than glamorous new lifestyle, which was also temporary, or if it was over, how quickly and easily she went to Lord Voldemort without even showing any interest in him. He at least had a nose.

He has seen her a few times, surrounded by all the power and dark glamour of the Dark Lord's entourage. He knows she is not sleeping on a flea ridden, rock hard mattress. Still, there was something different about her eyes. A deadness or vacancy he had not seen when he spoke to her in her home.

But never mind, she made her choice. She will live with it now.

In the darkness he fears he maybe becoming obsessed.

July 29th notes for the use of Nepenthes

Subject has been off the potion for four days. The first two days saw a gradual but marked increase in both concentration and awareness. Subject was able to hold intelligent, well reasoned conversation, expressed curiosity and drew creative collusions. But showed no signs of regaining memories.

Change occurred the morning of the third day without potion. Subject withdrew into silence. Withdrew does have a different quality then the previous lifelessness from the potion so this cannot be listed as a relapse. Subject is wary and watchful, chooses not to speak but watches the movements of my hands or the formation of wards on Wormtail's lips. There is also a refusal to make eye contact, even when head is forced to rise, subject will shut her eyes.

Perhaps, she is remembering but is having problems coming to terms with memory, so withdraws as a refuge. Will continue to monitor the situation closely.

Daily log, Agent 27

There was talk of Hermione around the fire tonight. Apparently, she was featured prominently in some smutty Muggle paper. It is amazing how close to the truth they apparently came, and yet how little they understand. She has been drugged. It must have been a powerful potion indeed. I do not know why I did not see it before. Poor Hermione, she does not know what she has become; how can I be angry with her now?

I couldn't help myself, I asked them to tell me more. Anything. What did she look like in the photo? What did it say? Was she quoted?

"Well, I'll tell you, Davey," said John, the self-appointed leader of this particular illegal fire pit. "She looks like a zombie, or a doll. The lights are on but no one is home."

"Yeah, but she is a doll with great breasts!" chimed in Peter. I have been watching him for deviant behavior and those remarks proved me suspicions! "I would love to get my hands on her. And I don't mind if she don't respond or nothing."

"Ha! Drugged or not, she ain't for the likes of you, now is she. Nah, the only one touching her is that ugly rich old man. Drugged is probably the only way he could get any woman. Did you get a look at him?

But now, look, you have made poor David here uncomfortable. He is blushing like a virgin. "What's the matter, Davey? She your sister or something?"

And I am ashamed to admit I was. But I was not blushing from embarrassment. No, to hear them talk about Hermione in such a way. And then, to picture her in the arms of... of Him! I am a loyal subject but Lord Voldemort is just not natural. And Hermione is an angel!

I know that it is crazy but I must find someway to save her. Or at least to offer her the chance to escape with me. John said there is to be an interview with her next week. Maybe watching it will give me some ideas.

I must see her!

August 1 notes for the use of Nepenthes

For the past two nights the subject experienced sleep disturbances. After days of silence she sleeps only to wake up screaming. Narcissa who is watching her throughout the nights, speaks of colic in babies and young children sometimes following this pattern.

This new development is exhausting Narcissa's limited patience. I will have to get a new companion for the nights if this continues.

Narcissa just came to me and there has been an interesting development. The subject was screaming again but this time Narcissa was able to completely wake her. Hermione asked for me.

Bone pale with dark smudges around her eyes, she resembled a skull staring out at me from the tarnished halo of her hair. She sat perfectly still in a knot of twisted bed sheet. Yet, as I slowly approached, those eyes fixed on my own for several seconds before she spoke.

"I see," she breathed and then she rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

That I would feature prominently in her nightmares does not surprise me but what should I make of her seeming acceptance of the nightmare?

Daily log, Agent 27

I have convinced Agent 51 of my need to be reassigned to the interview. It took some explaining but I managed to convince him. I told him a heavily edited version of the campfire talk, making it seem Hermione might be in danger and I, as the one who knows these men, would be the best to protect her.

Now I just have to get her alone. She will come with me, I am sure of it. And if she is still drugged I will just spirit her away and then she will thank me when she comes around. Even living on the streets must be preferable than living with Him.

Or maybe we could go back into hiding near her old studio. Back to a small cozy cottage where she could make her art while I stood guard. And we could even have few kids running around. And a new car, she must miss hers. It would be idyllic. She would smile at me and I would worship at her feet. It would, of course, be the end of my career, but that career really isn't going anywhere now, is it? I will not miss it.

I wonder just how tight a watch Lord Voldemort keeps on her.

The Malfoy mansion was a blaze with light as Lucius and Narcissa greeted their guests. From over the shoulder of Dolohov, whom he was trapped in a tedious conversation with, he never would understand why this man was Minister of Magic, Lucius saw Lord Voldemort make his entrance. But the welcoming smile froze on his face as he watched Hermione Granger arrive on the arm of the Dark Lord and looking quite lucid. What color was in his face drained away as she reclaimed her arm and went over to greet his wife like an old friend.

Without even a word of explanation or apology to Dolohov, Lucius moved to stand protectively behind his wife.

"Lucius, thank you so much for having me into your home. It is lovely." Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were hard. She knew she was exposed and unwelcome.

Keenly aware of the attention on their little exchange, Lucius took her pro-offered hand. "Thank you. It has been in my family for years and we are very proud of it. That reminds me, whatever happened to your family? You come from Muggles don't you? Muggle dentists?" Even as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a mistake. He was seething at this Mudblood who was parading herself around his house like a queen. It was hard enough he had to live with the smell of Muggles at work all day, but to have her here, defiling his ancestral home! He had heard the rumors about the Dark Lord, everyone had, but he had not believed them until now. The doubt scared him and fear was weakness. He was slipping into a rage.

"Oh, they are doing very well, thank you." Firmly she withdrew her hand from his. "They are living in the United States where their new practice is doing quite well."

"Lucius, I need a word with you," hissed a cold voice in his ear. Lucius felt his throat go dry and his anger melt away. Not all fear was weak. Fear of the Dark Lord was healthy. Meekly, Lucius followed Lord Voldemort into an empty room.

"It seems the Malfoy house has fallen indeed. I will give you one change to explain such rudeness to myself and my..." Voldemort paused for a moment, seeming to search for the term he wanted and Lucius felt a moment of hope, "... to Hermione."

"My Lord, you know that it is none of my business who you take into your... service. But since it is plain for all to see that the girl has regained her wits, there has been talk, even among the most faithful, that your... fondness for this Mudbl... Hermione, is a weakness." Even as he spoke, Lucius was arranging himself into a position of both humility and protection. But the blow never came.

Gathering his courage, Lucius raised his eyes to the figure of the Dark Lord staring though the window and into the darkness.

"I believe you are incorrect," he spoke softly and did not glance at Lucius's still bowed figure.

"Then, perhaps you will put her aside, my Lord?"

"I am as fond of her as of any. No, Lucius, I said, I believe you are incorrect." This time there was nothing soft in his tone and the blond man cringed lower still. "Leave. I have kept you from your guests long enough."

"Yes, my Lord." Silently Voldemort turned back to the window and the darkness.

It has been two days that I have been locked in this room. I do not know why I am being held. I have not spoken to him since arriving at Lucius's party. We returned to the mansion and he handed me to Wormtail who, without a word, locked me in this room.

And so it has been. I see no one but Wormtail, who shoves food at me, changes the bucket left for my use, and then leaves with out a word twice a day. This time I was also stripped of my wand.

But surely he will come soon. The interview is tomorrow evening and he has not even told me what I am to say. Not to mention how desperately I need a bath and to change out of this stupid party dress. At this point, I might as well go out and confirm everything; I should out him for the monster he is! How could I ever have enjoyed the sound of his voice, his learning, his company?

Unless he used the Imperius curse. Oh, God; that is what he is going to do. I know it. But he would not use it on me. Would he? He finds amusement in my intelligence. I would have said he would never have thought he could leave me like this either. I have been deluding myself. I have forgotten who he is... what he is.

No, my sin is far worse. I have believed myself to be special and allowed myself to turn my back on who he is. I have allowed myself to believe...

What use is love? Is it being more content in someone's presence that when they are missing? Is it being able to tolerate someone? But that is just loneliness. There is no love, there is only acceptance.

There in no shame in accepting the change that has already occurs. Indeed it often seems to take more courage. But these are Slytherin virtues. What have I become?

Dante chose the ninth circle of Hell, as low as you can get, for traitors. And for the worst of the worst, those infamous traitors far beyond the pale of humanity; Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius, he reserves the fate of being eternally consumed by Lucifer himself. I can feel wicked teeth tearing into me even now. I have betrayed everything and everyone. Do I now betray my betrayer?

I must stop this or I shall drive myself mad. And this time without the benefit of a potion or spell. I should do a good job of it as well, I have always been a quick study. Ha!

Focus, Hermione. The room. Glean help from your surroundings, or at least it will give me a task to occupy my mind. There is a bed in the corner with a single flat pillow and rough brown blanket. The frame is iron and firmly fixed to both the floor and wall. No help there... The other corner has the metal bucket and... that is it. The floor is stone and cold. Dust has piled up in the corners. The windowless walls are the same color as the dust and, in places, cracked and flaking.

If I had a quill, I would inscribe the space about the door with "Abandon all hope ye who enter". If he leaves me here long enough, blood will suffice. Let him yell about the graffiti if he wants. The door is thick heavy wood, maybe oak but I really don't know and... the door is opening!

Instantly, Hermione drops to the bed, attempting a position bit nonchalant and defiant. She fails at both.

"This is not about love. I do not know love," the words come out harsh and he leaves them.

"No."

"You will come to my chamber tonight." He turns and leaves then, but the door remains open.

Hermione is referring and quoting from Dante.


	9. The Pupil in Denial

Author's Notes: This would be a coma disaster with out the work of Madame Celeste. Thank you!

The Pupil in Denial

"If you could run through it one more time, please?" The words were polite but she could see where Lucius's knuckles had turned while around his quill. The silent presence of her companion kept them both in check. Hers was a smug politeness while Lucius fumed in muted gestures.

"We came out and I engaged the reporter in polite background conversation; where I was born, what my parents do, etc. Keep it as close to the truth as I can. When the conversation, as it will, comes around to how I met Lord Voldemort, I am to answer that I met him through you. We were both attending a party at your home and struck up an unlikely friendship. That should, for a little while at least, deflect the conversation unto you. I suppose since we are trying to keep things honest, I can say I met you at school?"

"No," Voldemort's voice contained more than a trace of amusement. "Tell them you were friends with his son. If you wish you could even go as far as to say girlfriend."

"Draco?"

"I hardly think that would really help anything, my Lord," said Lucius, clutching the quill so hard it finally snapped. But at the Dark Lord's raised hand, Lucius's mouth shut with an audible click.

"Yes, Draco. I don't think it will hurt Lucius any to be reminded of his place and how he got there, plus aliening yourself with a youthful romance cut short by tragedy will do much to gain you sympathy, child."

Lucius cringed, though whether from the reminder of his disgrace or the Dark Lord's use of the endearment, even he was not sure. "Alright, so continue... Hermione."

"Yes, so. I am the grief stricken ex-girlfriend of the tragically killed Draco Malfoy, who you, Lucius, graciously invited to a small gathering at your home. While there I meet Lord Voldemort. We strike up a conversation and you hired me as... what, an assistant, consultant, accountant?"

"Accountant."

"Okay, accountant, and over time the relationship grows from business to romantic and there you have it. The first I have heard about any kind of drug or slavery was when my mother read it in the paper and called me. I was as surprised as anyone."

"I think she's got it. Lucius, are you satisfied?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good. It is time for us to go. Hermione?"

"Coming."

After they left, Lucius conjured himself a glass of strong firewhiskey and sank gratefully into a plush chair. He knew for certain he would not be within miles of a Muggle television set this night.

Hermione stared disapprovingly at her reflection. It had been far too long since she had to pass for a Muggle under close scrutiny. She did not even dare to put on a lip tinting charm for fear the make-up artist would suspect... well something.

Sighing, she put down the hairbrush and picked up the book Voldemort had lent her that morning. She was only half-way through but kept finding herself in contradiction with the author's assumptions. The current chapter was on long distance Muggle control. She did not care how powerful you were, mass crowd control spells where always a risky proposition. Mentally she was writing lists of points to bring up with Voldemort when she got the chance.

It was strange to think of him just as Voldemort, not Lord Voldemort, not the Dark Lord, but just Voldemort, like any other person. Well... not really like any other person. She had not been able to address him by his name to his face yet. She just kind of entered his presence and started to talk, or, more often waited for him to talk to her. What that said about her and well... the relationship, she did not want to think about. Where was that make-up person?

"I don't envy you your job today, but maybe you can make sense out of my hair," she spoke to the sound of the opening door.

"Hermione."

She knew that voice... but surely not, he was dead. "Paul?" Turning, she saw it was him. He was thinner, had grown a wispy beard, and was in desperate need of a haircut but it was defiantly him. "Paul," she repeated.

"Well, for now it is David, actually," he smiled but there was worry in his eyes. "You look good. You look... lucid. How did you get him to stop drugging you?" To his growing horror, she blushed.

"He... well... he just decided to stop giving it to me. I think maybe for this interview but... hum..."

"He just decided. I see. How long ago?" There was a desperate note in his voice, like a man waking to find his fondest dream a lie.

"I don't know, a week, two weeks. What are you doing here? He knew who you were. If he finds you, you will be dead for sure this time." She could feel her anger beginning to rise. She was guilty, she had betrayed him along with everyone else she had cared about and he had every right to call her out. But she was proud; her indigent anger was all she had.

In the face of her clenched fists and high color, it all suddenly became painfully clear to him. This was not damsel in distress in need of rescue. "What did you do? My God Hermione! Tell me did you pause and shed a tear for your fallen friends and ideals or are you such a slut that you were just glad to be in a man's bed again, any man's obviously."

As his bitter words died away, a slowly steady clapping cut the air. Both pairs of eyes fixed on the tall, think, figure standing in the doorway. "Well said, Agent 27," spoke Lord Voldemort with a small mocking bow.

"Agent 27?"

"Yes, my dear. You see, I did not lie to you. Paul Listman is quite dead. Who are you now 27? David, I believe."

The younger man remained silent, his eyes carefully fixed on a point just above Lord Voldemort's left shoulder. His face betrayed nothing.

"So all that time..." whispered Hermione, sitting down, her glance flying between the two men. Neither of them were looking at her.

"Yes, child, he was in my service from the first day you met poor, young Paul Listman, idealistic leader of the rebellion. Paul was one of my favorite creations. I did tell you I had an extensive network of spies. Yes, I knew what he was doing then but what is only beginning to become clear to me is what he is doing here, now. Tell me "David" what are you doing here upsetting my Hermione?"

As the silence stretched out, Voldemort slowly smirked. "Ah, I am afraid I do see after all. Well, all in all, I am glad it has come to this. Poor Hermione has been foolishly holding onto her guilt. She even spoke your name in her sleep a few times."

The blow hit its mark. The young man jerked as if shocked and swung around to stare pleadingly at Hermione. "Oh Hermione, I am so sorry. I did not mean to... I betrayed you. I mean, it was my job but then... then I met you and saw what a unique, beautiful, intelligent woman you are. But then, when I heard how you were being kept and drugged and..."

"Well, it seems the boy came to save you, my dear. And tell me, Hermione, do you need saving?"

"I... uh... oh, Paul!"

"Hum... maybe the child does need rescuing after all. I'll even sweeten the deal. You enjoy your gothic novels, let's make this farce one. You must choose, Hermione. You can go with him and live a life of poverty but with, dare I presume, love, but you must live as a Muggle. Your wands will be broken and your powers surrendered to me. Or you may stay with me in the life to which, I believe, you have become accustomed." There was a guarded note in Voldemort's cold voice Hermione could not remember having heard before.

"And Paul?" She asked, daring to look directly into Voldemort's eyes, eyes which widened slightly at her question.

"That shall be up to you. He must be punished for his audacity. On your word I will either have him executed or exiled to live out the rest of his life as a Muggle."

Giving the dishevel man a considering look, Hermione's mouth twisted. "Life among Muggles, that seems a fitting punishment for betraying the last hope of resistance in Britain, even as I live among those who hate me. Swear to it," she demanded turning to Lord Voldemort.

Wordlessly, he brought a hand to his forehead. Hermione did the same and repeated the promise. A flash of red light encompassed them. The young man watching hung his head.

"It is done," she said.

"It is done," he replied turning to the now nauseous young man. "Your wand."

The man who had been called Paul and David and a whole host of other names but who always thought of himself as Agent 27, slowly placed his wand into the Dark Lord's waiting hand. He closed his eyes as he heard the fateful snap and the Dark Lord's soft murmur, "Volo". There was a sharp tugging sensation and then he knew no more.

"Will he be alright?" Hermione asked, looking down at the unconscious figure between them.

"Yes, I will have someone come to carry him out."

"Thank you. I must get ready. The interview."

"Yes." But neither moved for several minuets, they just looked at each other as if they had never really seen the other before and so were unsure of their strengths or intentions.

"Lady," said Lord Voldemort finally, taking his leave with a small bow.

"My Lord," replied Hermione, before turning back to her mirror and hairbrush.


	10. Brave New World

Author's Notes: And so it is done. I hope you have enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed writing it. And again, one last time, allow me to thank my beta Madam Celeste who really was more help than she knows.

Brave New World

There are more of them then there used to be; unshaven men with a hard look in their eyes, garbed in the tattered remains of several mismatched suits, and women with blank eyes clutching at their many layers of clothing, the shape of their bodies unknowable but most likely dangerously thin. They stand in the dark shadows and watch or huddle around unlawful fires and murmur. Everyone pretends not to see them, but no one can miss them. He finds the most comfort among their ranks.

Tonight a group of men are gathered in front of an electronic store to watch the taped interview. "Damned rich," mutters one.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't mind 10 minutes with her."

"10 minuets, that all it would take?" the laughter dies as the interview begins. First the carefully pressed host explains what a treat it is to have her guest with her. The camera angle widens, showing two perfectly composed figures seated on a short couch. The woman, while not technically beautiful, exudes an air of confidence and charisma that draws you in. She talks brightly and quickly, every now and again laying a gentle hand on the knee of her silent companion.

He is a monster, a face to haunt a child's nightmares. There was some talk after the first interview of a tragic accident several years ago that left him like this; apparently school pictures were quite handsome. No one knows for sure. No one dares ask. He does not speak but watches her with a mixture of threat and adoration in his disturbing piercing eyes.

The polite questions are done quickly; how is your family, who designed the gown worn to the opening last week, where will they be going next? But there is a more important reason for this interview. The woman sits perfectly still and stares directly out into the camera; a look of reproach and disgust on her face. She speaks of children who cannot even read their own names, of a world without safety or security. She speaks of a lack of want and the good of a universal world government. She speaks of duty and bravery and honor.

One by one the men around him nod. None of them can see what is really going on. They will all go sign up to become cannon fodder, and happily so. He separates himself from the crowd and the pull of her spell. It seems they found a Muggle crowd control spell after all. Using the power of the camera was ingenious, long distance control.

"Brave new world," the man once called Agent 27 murmurs as he walks alone into the London night. He is disturbed not so much by Hermione's use of such a crude spell on Muggles as by the soft rounding of her stomach and the clear lucidity in her eyes. She appears at peace with her choice.

One way or another, he knows, India will fall next to Lord Voldemort. It will all fall to Lord Voldemort. "Brave new world."

Brave New World, Shakespeare said it first though many have repeated.


End file.
